I Promise
by Tofania
Summary: It's the night before the Reichenbach Fall, and Moriarty knows he will never see Seb again.


Jim drank everything away.

Everything. All the pain and emotion and _good god, sentiment?_ went swirling down his throat in the form of wine as he emptied his glass in one gulp. Anything to stop his mind, to stop his immense brain from functioning. But he was intelligent enough to know that no amount of alcohol or drugs or sleep or tears could ever make him stop thinking about this. About what he would have to do. About who he would have to leave. About who would he hurt.

"Boss, haven't you drank enough already?"

Jim slowly lifted his eyes toward him and looked away quickly. Sebastian frowned. He saw something. Something, if only he knew what it was. Something in Jim's eyes, something that stayed there, that didn't match the rest of his face or demeanor. Whatever it was, it was something he had never seen before.

_ Sadness._

"Are you alright?" Sebastian asked uncertainly.

Jim turned toward him sharply and smiled for a second. "Nothing," he said, swallowing, not taking his eyes of Sebastian. His eyes had gone back to normal. No sadness. Just the usual dark, unnerving look.

Must have been a trick of the light.

Jim laughed and poured out some more wine. "You sure you don't want any, Sebby?" Jim said, his voice fluctuating erratically as always. But there was something half-hearted about him. He seemed…human. Not a spider at the center of a web, not a monster…a human. With a heart. "Do you mind," he began, his voice low, his eyes trained on the wine glass, "staying with me tonight?"

Sebastian shook his head. "Sorry, boss. We have that big job tomorrow, remember? That Sherlock Holmes bloke. I can't aim well with a hangover." He saw the look on Jim's face and smiled. "Maybe tomorrow night." He paused for a moment. "I promise."

Moriarty's face was completely blank. There was a silence for a moment.

"Yes," he whispered finally. "Tomorrow." He turned around and closed his eyes and took another swig of his wine. It tasted salty, and Moriarty was glad that Seb could not see his face or the tears falling from his eyes, mixing with his wine, with his pain and emotion and _yes, yes, it's sentiment, idiot, you're being sentimental_and Moriarty simply waved his hand as Seb left to go to bed, and as the door closed shut he muttered, "Goodbye Sebastian."

He didn't hear.

He didn't know Jim Moriarty's last word to him was his name.

And the next day Seb kneeled with his sniper rifle trained on John Watson when a sound resonated throughout the area, shattering the silence, shattering his concentration. The sound of a gunshot. And as Seb lifted his eyes from his gun and looked at the rooftop he saw only one man standing. Sherlock Holmes.

And one man on the ground, blood the color of red wine seeping from his head. And suddenly everything made sense; suddenly he realized why Jim had drank so much, why he had seen sadness flicker across his eyes, why he had wanted Seb to drink with him, _he had wanted me to drink with him, he had wanted me to drink with him the day before he died, the last night he had on Earth and he wanted to spend it with me, and I said no, and I promised we would drink tonight, I promised, I promised, I promised…_

And all of sudden nothing made sense anymore as he saw the look on John Watson's face as Sherlock jumped and he realized it probably mirrored the expression on his. And as he saw Sherlock's body hit the ground with a sickening he crunch he dropped his sniper rifle. He wouldn't need it any more. The son of a bitch was dead. The son of a bitch who killed James Moriarty was dead.

It didn't matter if Jim had shot himself. Sherlock Holmes killed him, same as if he had pulled the trigger himself.

And as Sebastian wiped the tears from his eyes and thought of the wine sitting at home, the wine he was supposed to drink with Jim, and as he realized that even if he had been able to spend that one last night with Moriarty, it wouldn't have mattered. Because he would still feel this way and he would still want more. One more night, one more week, one more month, year, decade, lifetime, eternity to spend with the man he had loved.

But no. His biggest regret, he realized as his sadness turned to anger, was that he had not been the one to kill Sherlock Holmes himself.

And as he thought of Moriarty's lifeless body, his eyes still shining as if he had just played a fabulous prank and his mouth still smiling in the face of death, he swore that he would get revenge.

_ Somehow_, he thought, as he packed up his rifle and went home.

Alone.


End file.
